


suspicious or unexpected

by diabolica



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e01 Antipasto, Manipulation, Other, Possessive!Hannibal, Pre-Canon, Therapy Years, Unhealthy Relationships, amoral people doing immoral things, canon-typical psychiatry, dramatic!Hannibal, unchecked privilege
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:41:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29427570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diabolica/pseuds/diabolica
Summary: The death of a loved one necessarily entails bereavement, grief, loss. Often regret, certainly mourning, sometimes trauma.The death of a patient entails ... an awful lot of paperwork.
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier & Hannibal Lecter, Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 18
Kudos: 27
Collections: Hannibal Bingo





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> [Dexstarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexstarr) is a gift to humanity and to this fandom. I wouldn't have finished this without her help and encouragement.
> 
> Written for my [Hannibal Bingo](https://hannibalbingo.tumblr.com/) card, for the prompt "Bedelia Du Maurier's house".

_i. god is beyond measure in wanton malice_

  
TRANSCRIPT (Audio Recording)

**Case No.** : 10SD4068  
**Interview of** Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier  
**Interviewer** : Det. Brandon Gossage  
**Date** : August 10  
**Also present** : Det. Evelyn Yow  
Diane Kohn, counsel for Dr. Du Maurier

  
[EXCERPT]

BG: Just tell us what you remember about the assault.

BD: I really don't, I'm afraid. Remember.

BG: All right. Then let’s start at the beginning. What were you discussing before he attacked you?

BD: I can't answer that.

DK: Privilege.

EY: We don't mean to ask you to violate your professional obligations. But this guy tried to kill you, it looks like, so can you help us out?

BD: I'll do my best.

BG: Do you remember what time it started?

BD: No.

BG: Isn’t there a clock in your office?

BD: No. Some therapists have their patients sit in a particular chair, and they place a clock behind them so the therapist can keep track of time. I prefer to let my patients decide where to sit, and having a wall clock distracts them, I find. So I rely on my wristwatch. I didn't check it ... at the time.

BG: Was it closer to the beginning of his session, or the end?

BD: Probably closer to the end, but I can't say by how much.

BG: When does his session usually end?

BD: 3:50.

BG: And your next appointment?

BD: Is at 4:00.

EY: And your next appointment was with Dr. Lecter?

BD: Correct.

* * *

  
_May 13, 3:32 p.m._

The shouting has stopped.

For courtesy’s sake, Hannibal knocks, as he does every Thursday. But today he doesn’t wait for Bedelia to rise from her desk and cross the office and the hall to answer. Instead, he opens the unlocked door and steps into a silence so profound it would be troubling to anyone else. Inside, the smell of the emergency room: adrenaline, cortisol, blood, sweat. It smells of opportunity. 

Soundlessly, he shuts the door behind him and moves towards the office, where chaos reigns. Broken glass litters the floor, catching beams of afternoon sun. A broken husk that used to be Neal Frank lies bleeding among the winking shards. So this is what has become of his failed experiment. 

"Bedelia?"

Hunched on the floor with her back to him, his psychiatrist twitches at the sound of his voice. She turns, catches sight of him over her shoulder. She must not have heard the knock, nor heard him enter. To be fair, she has other concerns at the moment.

Her voice hoarse, she says, "He attacked me." It sounds as if she’s trying the words out, to see how they land. Later, he is sure she will understand how fortunate she was that he, and not someone else, found her like this.

Hannibal looks her over, eyes moving pointedly between her gore-covered arm and the bloody ruin of Neal Frank’s mouth. Even a child could understand what has happened here. His expression says as much, but Bedelia isn’t paying close attention. 

"Is that your blood?" He places a miniscule stress on the word "your".

"No," Bedelia admits.

Keeping Bedelia in his peripheral vision, Hannibal crouches beside Neal’s body, picks up one limp, clean hand and holds it up to the light. They are the hands of someone with a desk job, someone unmarried, someone who perhaps ought to trim his fingernails but who has probably not just violently attacked his psychiatrist.

"You were ... defending yourself?" Hannibal asks, the barest hint of scepticism in his voice. He is giving her a chance to tell the truth.

She does not take it. Instead, she nods slowly, refusing to meet his eye. Bedelia draws in a stuttered breath and says, "I was reckless."

_Reckless_ , Hannibal thinks. _That’s one way of putting it._ He allows the unsettling silence to linger, and then he says calmly, "This wasn’t reckless violence. It was a controlled use of force." He stares at her arm. 

Bedelia doesn’t notice. She says, "I know what happened." She sounds as if she is trying to reassure herself.

Hannibal wants to laugh but suppresses it. Things really could not have turned out any better. "Do you?" he asks.

"He was your patient before he was mine," Bedelia says, reaching, diverting. Perhaps one day she will make the connection, and they will discuss it. But not today.

"He died under your care,” he lobs back at her. Twisting the knife. Then, as if realisation is dawning on him, he says, "You were not defending yourself."

"I was," Bedelia says, though her voice sounds unsure.

Hannibal straightens. He regards her for a long moment, as if he is thinking things over, coming to a decision. In truth he is enjoying the sense of fulfilment that comes from seeing a project come to fruition, more delightfully than he could have anticipated. 

Finally he says, "Well. I am here now. Do you trust me?"

Bedelia takes a moment to stand up. Her legs are shaking. Rather than speak her answer, she nods. Her downcast eyes are very wide, very blue, and very frightened. She is covered in blood, still breathing hard.

She has never been more beautiful.

"Good," Hannibal says, in his most reassuring tones. "This is what we are going to do. You are going to call 911. You will tell your story." Her eyes dart to her desk, to the phone. She makes no move to reach for it. 

Hannibal continues, "But first, you have to get the story straight."

"Yes."

"Before we do anything, you need to clean up."

Without a word, Bedelia turns and walks away, head bent, now purposeful. Hannibal follows. She walks through the hall, up a short flight of stairs and opens a door that is always, always closed. Beyond lies her bedroom. She passes the smooth expanse of her bed, sea foam green and ice white, to the en suite bathroom. The air here carries her scent in a way that the rest of the house doesn’t. Hannibal notes the dresser against one wall, her jewellery scattered across the top. A cut-glass bottle of her perfume sits there on a little decorative tray. A framed photograph, angled away from where he now stands, that he longs to inspect. 

Bedelia steps out of her shoes at the threshold of the en suite, habitual; this is something she does every day. Her cosmetics are lined along the bathroom counter. He wants to stop and enjoy all these humanising details but now is not the time.

Not glancing up, still saying nothing, Bedelia begins to unbutton her bloodstained blouse with clumsy fingers. She slips it off her shoulders. It falls easily off her left arm but clings to the right, still sticky with blood and tissue. She peels it off, her expression briefly pained, dropping it into a laundry basket without another thought. If she feels any awkwardness at his seeing her in this state of undress, she makes no sign. She moves like an automaton.

Hannibal speaks: "This doesn’t look good for you, you know."

"I know."

Standing in her skirt and bra, Bedelia turns on the tap and begins to wash her trembling hands, her bloody arm. She is careful not to splash blood everywhere. Hannibal approaches.

"Washcloth?" he asks.

She indicates the closet to his right, avoiding her own eyes in the mirror. He turns, opens the closet, which releases a pleasant whiff of lavender. A neatly folded pile of towels sits on a shelf at eye level. He takes a washcloth from the top and turns back to Bedelia. Her arm is clean now but she is still washing her hands, scrubbing at the nails, pausing only to pump more soap before continuing.

Hannibal wets a folded corner of the washcloth under the tap, bumping her hand in the process. She starts, but quickly recovers, still not looking up. He places a hand gently on her shoulder. Her skin is warm, a tremor still running through her. She stills, simply breathing. Slow now, controlled. He counts: four beats in through the nose, seven beats out through pursed lips. This is as vulnerable as he has ever seen her. As vulnerable as she will ever be.

He holds up the washcloth so that she can see it, a wordless request. She nods, a tiny inclination of her head. He begins to dab away the flecks of blood he has noted on her cheek. She leans into him, eyes closed—an intimacy she would never allow in any other circumstance. Hannibal can feel her relaxing under his touch and hides his pleasure at this realisation. He cleans a spot on her jaw, takes care not to wipe away her makeup because they don’t have time for her to reapply it. Sweat is beading on her forehead; he leaves that too because she will need to appear distressed and dysregulated when the police arrive. 

All this he does without speaking because he doesn’t wish to startle her further.

Now her hands are clean, but she continues to scrub, as if now that she has begun the action she cannot stop. Still moving slowly, keeping his hands where she can see them, Hannibal turns off the tap. Bedelia goes still, as if waiting. 

After a moment, he says, "I can help you tell the version of events you want to be told." There is a spot on her temple that he has missed. He sweeps her hair back to clean it. "I can help you … if you ask me to."

A long moment passes in silence. She is processing, perhaps considering the risk he would run in doing so, the risks she has no choice but to run now. He continues to touch the washcloth to her face, the dry bit of it now because he has removed all the visible blood, because it seems to have a soothing effect on her. Waiting for her to say the magic words. 

There are tears in her eyes. She has been trying not to blink and dislodge them. Finally, she gives up the fight. Face upturned now, she closes her eyes. A tear spills over. He doesn’t wipe it away.

"Will you help me?" she asks.

It requires a great deal of effort for him to suppress a grin. In serious tones, he says, "I will."

Bedelia softens, almost sags with relief. He wants to pull her to him, hold her—that would be the human thing to do, wouldn’t it?—but he decides against it. She isn’t ready. He only watches as she supports herself against the bathroom counter. He is conscious, as she must be too, of time passing, of the body cooling on her office floor. 

To initiate action in her, Hannibal says, “It will make your story more credible if you have a visible injury."

Bedelia rouses herself. She lifts her head and reaches for the towel hanging beside the sink, begins to dry her still-wet hands and arms. The movement of her eyes tells Hannibal she is calculating.

"You’re right," she says finally. 

A narcotic wave of delight, of wellbeing, washes over Hannibal at the sound of _those_ words from _her_ mouth. He wants her to say it again, and again. He is still glowing inside when she turns and looks at him, directly in the eye, for the first time since he found her covered in blood on her office floor. He waits for her to say more.

"Hannibal, I need you to strangle me."

* * *

  
Autopsy BPD110086-48F  
**Date** : 06/25  
**Decedent** : Frank, Neal  
**Forensic Pathologist** : Felix Perez  
**Assisting** : Adam Steininger

Audio file excerpts

  
[....]

  
FP: What do we got?

AS: White male, 33, epileptic. Bit clean through his tongue during a seizure ... and swallowed a good chunk of it. That’s not normal is it?

FP: Normal? No. Can happen though. 

AS: Cops say he attacked his therapist in her home office. Had the seizure while he was strangling her, choked. So. Suspicious/unexpected death.

FP: OK.

AS: Pronounced dead after ambulance transport to Sinai. Records say he used to be a meth addict.

FP: Epilepsy and meth use?

AS: Yeah. PCR says eight months sober.

FP: Hmmm ... OK. Brain should be interesting, then, depending how long he used. You said he tried to strangle his psychologist?

FP: Psychiatrist. Apparently.

FP: Fucking tweakers. Janet, don't put that in the report.

AS: Thank you, Janet. We love you, Janet.

[laughter]

FP: Right. Let’s open him up. 

  
[ … ]

  
FP: There we go. Jesus. Look at this.

AS: The hell? Looks like someone shoved a battering ram down his throat. Can intubation cause that?

FP: Not unless the tube was coated in sandpaper. And about three inches in diameter. Can you check the—What did the psychiatrist say happened, again?


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, nothing but love for [dexstarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexstarr) for helping me iron out the kinks on this one. (There were many.)

  
_ii. and matchless in his irony_

  
TRANSCRIPT (Audio Recording)  
**Case No.** : 10SD4068  
**Interview of** Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier  
cont’d.

  
[EXCERPT]

BG: Had he ever behaved aggressively towards you before this incident?

BD: Aggressively, no ... 

DK: Tell them, Bedelia.

EY: Tell us what?

BD: In the last several weeks before this, I had ... run into Neal a few times. By chance, or so I thought at first. Once while I was grocery shopping. Another time when I was having lunch with a friend. And again at the post office, he was going in when I was coming out. I got the impression that he was following me.

BG: You think he was stalking you.

BD: I don’t know.

BG: Did you report this to anyone?

BD: I didn't feel it rose to the level that I would need to report it to the police, for example.

BG: Did he try to speak to you on these occasions?

BD: No. Or, just the once. At the post office and then again at the restaurant, he just waved. I acknowledged him but we didn't speak.

EY: And at the grocery store?

BD: He said hello, and I said hello, but I didn't stop to talk. It wouldn't have been appropriate. But I thought it was strange because he didn't have a shopping cart or a basket with him, and he doesn't live in the neighbourhood, so I'm not sure what he would have been doing there.

BG: You said you didn't report it, but did you mention these meetings to anyone else?

BD: To my own therapist, in consultation. Once or twice may be chance, but more than that feels like a pattern. She agreed that it was strange, and we decided it would be best for me to ask Neal about it. At the time, I felt I could handle him.

* * *

  
_November 18, 4:46 p.m._

As their session comes to a close, Bedelia checks her watch. But she makes no move to rise from her seat and Hannibal cocks his head. She appears to be formulating something she wants to say.

"My attorney called me today," she says. "She spoke to the District Attorney, who told her they will not proceed to indictment. They are closing their investigation. I should be receiving a letter from them later this week."

Hannibal wants to smile but keeps his expression neutral, merely curious. He had heard that Bedelia hired Diane Kohn, who is evidently an old friend of hers. The move made sense; surely in such matters it’s best to have the support of someone who can be trusted. But even Hannibal, a relative newcomer to Baltimore’s insular society, knows of Kohn’s reputation. Clearly, she has done the job one would expect.

He has followed this investigation avidly. Apart from simple curiosity, he has a personal stake in the outcome of this particular matter. As such, an unofficially made photocopy of the medical examiner’s report in the Neal Frank case has made its way to his desk. He has also ensured that his statement to the Baltimore police provided the information they would need to draw the correct conclusions.

Bedelia knows none of this. 

He says mildly, "I would imagine there is insufficient evidence to charge you with anything."

"That's what she said, more or less." Bedelia regards him soberly before speaking again. "She also told me privately that Neal Frank had a prior arrest for sexual assault, against his ex-girlfriend. This ex-girlfriend was apparently blonde and rather petite."

Hannibal blinks at her; his eyebrows lift in surprise. "Did he?"

"Yes. I believe that had some influence on the decision not to proceed. That and possibly the fact that Neal had a history of substance abuse. I knew about the substance abuse, of course, but I had no idea about the sexual assault arrest."

Bedelia knows, just as Hannibal knows, how influence works. If you have two doctors, well dressed and well educated, exuding affluence and both telling the same story, and on the other hand you have a former addict and potential sex offender who cannot speak for himself, then law enforcement’s job is easy. As any reasonably intelligent person knows, it’s not what you’ve done that matters; it’s what they can prove.

"I hope you know—" he begins. 

She holds up a hand. "I don't believe you would have knowingly referred a patient to me who had a history of sexual violence. The ex-girlfriend dropped the charges, so there's no way you could have known. But the thought that I was alone with him in my home does make me … uncomfortable."

"We cross paths with so many people every day. It would be crippling to think what violence each of them might be capable of," he says, remembering with a stirring of pleasure the feel of his hand around her throat. "You must be relieved to be able to put this behind you at last."

"Yes. Well, there's still the malpractice claim by his father, but my insurance company is handling that."

"It requires a certain nerve to file a malpractice claim on behalf of a son you haven't seen in years."

"Might as well turn him into a cash cow, I suppose. Good luck to him. At least I don't have to field his calls."

"This has been difficult for you," Hannibal observes.

"It has." Bedelia's eyes meet his and he sees that she is touched by his concern. "It has made me re-evaluate certain things. I've come to a decision, Hannibal, one that affects you."

He doesn’t like the sound of that. "Oh?"

"At the end of the year, I am retiring from private practice,” she says, in her most careful and measured therapist tones. "This means," she adds, as if she hasn’t just dropped a bomb on him, "you will have to find a new therapist." 

Hannibal feels himself become very still. Still as the body of god on the cross, and just as tortured. Just as forsaken. His first coherent thought is a denial: This cannot be happening. Bedelia Du Maurier knows more about him than any person living. Moreover, he depends now on these hours with her. This octagonal room, lovely, light and high, has been incorporated into his memory palace—an island of safety and tranquillity. Because of Bedelia.

He needs her, he realises, in a way he has never needed anybody. The power this gives her had become intolerable, made only somewhat more tolerable by the shift in their relationship occasioned by their shared patient, their shared disaster. And now that the tide has finally turned in his favour, after all he had done _for_ her, she is casting him off.

"I see," he says, as if he does. As if he can appreciate her position.

From his first session with Bedelia, he recognised in her a connection, a sort of commonality between them that had less to do with the electricity in her handshake than with the bond between two like minds. Something _kindred_. Her therapeutic observations on the nature of the self, her insights on solitude, on vulnerability—even the things she does not say, the things she holds back on the understanding that _he_ will understand—made his certainty on this point absolute: _Here is one who is like me._

He will not, he _cannot_ allow this.

She continues to regard him with the calm, kind expression he has come to expect from her. He schools his features into a mask of inscrutability. She must not know how she has wounded him.

"Are you offering me a referral?" he asks.

"Naturally." She smiles, and it does not reach her eyes.

He has spent years gauging Bedelia’s emotional reactions, weighing them in his palms like fruit from the tree of knowledge. She is so much more opaque than most people. She gives away very little, and nothing for free. His professional insights tease her curiosity. His admissions and concessions about his own personal history—things he’s never before spoken aloud—beckon her closer but never close enough. Yet even with the weight of this new secret drawing them together, at the end of each session she checks her watch and drops the portcullis, retreating again into the heart of her fortress without acknowledging what is so plainly _there_.

Over their many conversations, Hannibal has noted something else. He has explored the smooth surface of her inscrutable reserve and discovered little chinks in the glassy ice. He has tapped them—delicately, watchfully—sunk himself into those black depths. Beneath the surface, roiling and seething, he has spotted a deep reserve of rage. A vast well of violence waiting to be unleashed. It had made him wish to provoke a display of her full brute force just for the pleasure of bearing witness to a cataclysm. 

Unable to provoke her into such a display against his own person, Hannibal had contented himself with sending her a substitute, a less capable but more convenient outlet for discharging that beautiful rage. He had expected her to crush Neal Frank psychologically; just _how_ she had crushed him had left Hannibal feeling both enchanted and vindicated. Confirming what Bedelia was capable of had only made him more certain of his feelings.

In the time before he met Bedelia, he knows exactly how he would have handled this kind of bone-exposing cut. He can feel the urge to lash out sitting just under his skin like a contusion. Painful. Tender. This is what his sessions with Bedelia have trained him out of—the impulse to act in a way that cannot be undone once it is done. 

Bedelia has taught him more productive methods of coping. She has deepened his knowledge of himself, shown him his own resilience. She deserves a chance to right this error in judgement, he decides. He can be patient with her, can bide his time while she comes round to a better way of thinking. 

And if she doesn’t arrive there on her own, he can persuade her.

"Thank you," he says, as if he isn’t breaking inside.

"Do you have any preferences?"

"I trust your judgement."

* * *

  
PATIENT CARE REPORT

**Patient** : Bedelia Du Maurier   
**DOB** : [redacted]   
**SSN** : [redacted]  
**Date of visit** : 5/13  
**Chief complaint** : Strangulation injuries / head trauma  
**Pre-existing conditions** : None   
**Allergies** : None

**Signs and Symptoms** : Extensive contusions to neck and throat area, contusion and laceration on back of patient’s head indicative of closed head injury. Hoarse voice, coughing, petechiae noted. Nausea reported.

**Narrative** : Patient arrived via ambulance 16:50, presented as conscious and alert. Patient reports having been assaulted in her home, suffering strangulation injuries as well as closed head injury. Patient reports having lost consciousness twice, having vomited once before arrival at hospital. Traumatic brain injury protocol initiated. Laboratory and radiologic evaluation performed. CT revealed no cerebral edema. No fractures detected, pulmonary edema negative. Head wound dressed. Injuries photographed (see attached), upon request by police. As she is otherwise asymptomatic, patient released 23:31 into care of Dr. H. Lecter with instructions to apply cold packs to neck and head as needed and follow concussion protocol. Patient declined prescription painkillers. Patient provided with pamphlet on monitoring signs and symptoms of strangulation and issued strict return instructions should further symptoms arise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter is written and will be posted shortly--and it's from Bedelia's POV.


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the last two chapters were written in Hannibal's POV, this one is in Bedelia's.
> 
> I believe I've mentioned what a wonderful beta and human being [dexstarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexstarr) is, but it bears repeating. ♥

_iii. Thursdays at four_

  
AUDIO TRANSCRIPT – Footage from Bodyworn Camera of Officer Jonathan Jeffs  
**Date of incident** : 5/13, 4:24 p.m.  
**Case File** : 10SD4068

Voices heard:  
Officer J. Jeffs [JJ]  
Officer R. Danielson [RD]  
Bernadette Matthews, EMT [BM]  
Bedelia Du Maurier, caller, complainant [BD]  
Hannibal Lecter, witness [HL]

HL: … the cervical collar, please.

BD: I really don’t think this is [ _coughing_ ] necessary.

HL: I assure you, it is absolutely necessary.

JJ: Officer Jeffs, Officer Danielson, Baltimore police.

HL: You took your time arriving.

JJ: Which of you called 911?

BD: That was me.

JJ: Ok, and you said someone attacked you.

BD: Yes. [ _coughing_ ]

RD: Where is he now?

BM: Being transported to Sinai. He’s in bad shape. We managed to restart his heart but he can’t breathe on his own.

JJ: Right. We’re going to need to ask some questions.

HL: I cannot allow that. Dr. Du Maurier has been strangled. She may have occult fractures—

JJ: Who are you? The husband?

HL: No. Hannibal Lecter. I am Dr. Du Maurier’s colleague.

RD: Colleague?

BD: My next appointment of the day.

RD: What do you mean next appointment?

BD: I’m a psychiatrist.

HL: As am I.

JJ: You’re a psychiatrist, seeing a psychiatrist?

HL: It’s a professional requirement.

JJ: So was the guy who attacked you also an appointment?

BD: A patient, yes.

JJ: Right, well, there’s a few things we need to—

HL: Whatever questions you have can be answered at the hospital. Bernadette, could you—

BM: Come on, Dr. Du Maurier. We’ll just do a quick scan. Make sure there’s no broken bones, no fluid in your lungs. This really isn’t the time to take chances.

BD: [ _inaudible_ ] [ _Alright?_ ]

BM: You want the stretcher?

BD: I can walk.

RD: You taking her to Sinai too?

BM: Yeah.

JJ: OK, we’ll follow. See when we might be able to talk to the other guy.

HL: [ _inaudible_ ] [ _Good luck?_ ]

* * *

  
_January 28, 10:15 a.m._

At the end of January, her doorbell rings. Bedelia checks the peephole and is surprised at who she finds on her doorstep. 

"Hannibal. This is unexpected.”

"Hello, Bedelia." He is carrying a gift bag. "May I come in?"

"Please." She steps back. "It’s lucky you caught me at home. Can I offer you a cup of coffee? Tea?"

"Coffee, thank you. If you’re having some." 

"I was just about to make a pot." This isn’t true, but most social graces are simply polite fictions, in Bedelia’s experience. A second coffee this morning would actually be nice.

Hannibal hangs up his coat, as he always has, and follows her into the kitchen. "How are you enjoying your retirement?" he asks.

"Haven’t had much time to enjoy it, honestly." He regards her quizzically, and she continues, "I am still getting used to it, I mean. It’s only been a month."

A month in which she has already purged every closet in the house, reorganized her many bookshelves, repainted her office and contacted builders about refurbishing the downstairs bath. She is running out of projects, only four weeks into her retirement. The rigid structure of her days as a therapist has been effectively—abruptly—upended and it has left her at loose ends. After the intense anxiety of the last several months, she had pictured having more time to herself as a good thing. Time to devote to her hobbies, to see friends, to regain her equilibrium. It turns out it was just more time to take long walks and ruminate about having killed a man.

Though it’s disconcerting to have Hannibal in her kitchen, with his keen eyes on her, habit kicks in. She takes the cafetière out of the dishwasher. "Is espresso all right?"

"Perfect," says Hannibal. "May I assist in some way?"

"Demitasses are in the cupboard to the left of the sink," she says, indicating. Obligingly, Hannibal opens the cupboard and removes two demitasses and their saucers. 

"These are lovely," he remarks, visibly pleased, setting them on the kitchen island. He takes a seat there.

"Thank you. They’re from a set my grandmother left me."

After adding water and ground coffee, Bedelia sets the cafetière on the stove, turns on the burner and grabs the sugar bowl. She thinks of putting out some biscotti, then reconsiders. She doesn’t want to encourage Hannibal to linger. Instead she takes a couple of spoons out of the drawer and places them, together with the sugar bowl, on the island. Hannibal watches her intently, saying nothing. Her gaze slides away.

"How do you like Dr. Stephens?" she asks, to break the silence.

"Right," he says, looking down almost apologetically. "That’s the reason I’m here, in fact."

"Oh?"

"It’s not working out."

Bedelia had half expected this. Hannibal’s standards are so exacting, it would be too much to hope he would connect well with her first referral. Sliding easily back into her role as his therapist, she maintains a calm, neutral expression when she says, "I’m sorry to hear that."

"It’s not her fault," Hannibal says. "We simply don’t … click, I’m afraid."

"That’s too bad."

"Well, in all fairness," he says, "it would be difficult for anyone to measure up to you."

She almost laughs, which would be inappropriate. Instead she gives him a rueful half-smile, to acknowledge the compliment. "Would you like another referral, then?" she asks, thinking that must be why he’s here.

"No, thank you. I would like to resume my sessions with you."

"Hannibal," she says. "I’m afraid that is not possible."

"Do you have another commitment on Thursdays at four?" he asks, as if the issue were merely a scheduling conflict.

Firmly, Bedelia says, "I am not available."

"And I am tenacious. As you know."

 _Tenacious_ , she thinks. _That’s one word for him._

On the stove the little pot sputters; the coffee is ready. To buy herself time, she turns off the stove and pours coffee into the two cups. She nudges the sugar bowl in Hannibal’s direction.

She returns the coffee pot to the stove, placing it on a cold burner, and says, "Hannibal, even if I wanted to resume treating you—which I don’t—I have closed my practice."

"You’re still a licensed clinician, I take it?" He adds sugar to his cup and stirs, watching her, and then moves the sugar bowl back in her direction.

She puts two spoons of sugar in her coffee, considering how to phrase what she is about to say. "I may still be licensed, but my practice is no more. I have wrapped up the business." She waits for Hannibal to respond, to indicate his understanding, but he merely sips his coffee and looks at her. To drive the point home, she continues, "As of the end of the year, I’ve closed the books and dismissed my accountant. I will not reopen my practice for one patient."

"Ah, well. I certainly wouldn’t want to get you into trouble with the tax authorities. But my conversations with Dr. Stephens made me realise I simply can’t connect with another therapist the way I did with you. So I would rather talk to you."

"Hannibal, you will need to find a practicing therapist for consultation about your own patients in any case. I am not a practicing therapist anymore."

"Consultation is a formality," Hannibal says, as if the ethical requirements of the profession mean next to nothing. _Which,_ Bedelia thinks, _he probably believes they do._ "But for my personal therapy," he continues, "I want you. Fortunately, I have a solution." 

He picks up the gift bag he arrived with, which has been sitting beside him on the kitchen island and hands it to her. "I propose that we continue our arrangement as before. I have no intention of letting you go uncompensated for your time, of course." 

"Hannibal."

"Open it."

Against her better judgement she removes a layer of tissue paper from the bag and finds a bottle: Chateau Figeac St Emilion 2005. It’s one of her favourites—one whose price tag, she knows, corresponds quite exactly to her hourly rate.

"You’re proposing to pay me in wine?" she asks, sardonic. "That’s very … Russian of you." Normally she wouldn’t use what she knows about a patient—his history and idiosyncrasies—to needle him like this; she’s irritated at him for putting her in this position.

His eyes narrow, but he responds with his usual composure. "Exchanging goods for services isn’t Russian, it’s universal. A much older practice than the use of money. I’m happy to pay in any other drink you prefer."

She puts the wine bottle back in the bag, replaces the tissue paper and tries to hand it back to him.

"No." He holds up his hands. "That is a retirement present to a colleague. I refuse to take it back." They stay like that for a moment, she with the bottle of wine extended, he unwilling to reach out for it. 

Hannibal holds her gaze. He says, "Bedelia, may I be frank with you? No other therapist in Baltimore can measure up to you."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "I’m good, Hannibal, but I’m not irreplaceable."

"What I mean is no other local therapist can assist someone like me in the same way you have. Culturally, philosophically, professionally." From anyone else, this would sound like flattery. Hannibal, however, is achingly sincere, unexpectedly vulnerable. He pauses, looks at his coffee cup before adding, "Who else in this town knows as much as you do about trans-generational trauma?"

Loathe as she is to admit it, he is right. She is an expert in trauma. The irony hits her hard, considering how she’s spent her retirement so far. 

She tells herself what’s done is done. She has taken a life, and what good would it do now to ruin her own life over it? There is no universal scale that requires balance, no omnipotent judge to tip such a scale in one direction or another. The words are hers, but somehow, in her head, she hears them in Hannibal’s voice.

Memory returns in bright flashes, like shards of mirror turned towards the sun, just as sharp. Just as blinding. It ambushes her as she goes about her day. More than once she’s caught herself at the sink, scrubbing her hands with no recollection of deciding to do so. Memory drags her gasping from sleep, so that she spends whole nights either blinking at the ceiling, or floating in a surreal haze in her bathtub, glass of wine in hand. It’s a dangerous, reckless habit. More than once she has fallen asleep in the water, slipped down and woken to find the water, like darkness, creeping into her. Insidious. She contemplates the day she does not wake in time, and the thought does not dissuade her from doing it again.

Her blood-drowned thoughts are nothing she will ever share with Hannibal, however.

"A therapist should never foster dependency in their patients," she says. To her own ears, her voice sounds smaller and less sure than it did a moment ago.

"This isn’t dependency in the therapeutic sense," Hannibal replies briskly. "This is a lack of appropriate alternate resources."

"What you are proposing is … unorthodox."

His mouth quirks. For a second she thinks he must be trying to suppress a smile. He says, "We’re not exactly orthodox people, are we?"

She decides to ignore the implications of that statement. 

"If you end up requiring medication, I would be unable to write you a prescription,” she says, thinking aloud. It’s a weak excuse but it’s the last one she can think of. He’s wearing her down. How did this happen?

His face is amused now. "Do you foresee the need to write me any prescriptions?" he asks. He knows the answer.

"No. I do not." Of all the patients she has had over the course of her career, Hannibal would be the least likely to require—or respond to—medication. He doesn’t suffer from depression or anxiety by any conventional definition. Only a sort of malaise that stems from loneliness, as deep and intractable as her own, she thinks. He has responded well enough with talk therapy alone. Besides, if he needed a prescription he's anti-social enough to write it himself.

Part of her is asking _What’s the harm in continuing to see him? As a patient, of course._ She isn’t stupid. She knows Hannibal wants more from her. His fascination-infatuation has only grown stronger since the attack, his protective instincts triggered, though he is far too polite to make any overt gestures. _He may not even be aware of it_ , she thinks. The attachment may simply register in his singular consciousness as transference, where another patient might call it love. 

In any case, she can handle him. Bedelia’s confidence in her ability to set boundaries hasn't been shaken by the attack.

The fact is she enjoys Hannibal’s conversation, and her mind is currently, unpleasantly, under-occupied. Leaving herself no work to do was perhaps a mistake. The prospect of continuing to guide Hannibal in the excavation of his past, of occasionally discussing his patients with him, tempts her for the purely selfish reason that it will provide a diversion, something more agreeable to focus on than ceaseless cogitation on her own failings. As a doctor. As a human being. This self-imposed isolation isn’t doing her any good.

She’s never heard of any such arrangement, with good reason.

There are rules that govern a psychiatrist’s relationship with her patients, for good reason.

But they have crossed that line already, haven’t they? He has undeniably helped her out of a situation that could have ended much worse for her. She hadn’t considered at the time how he was risking his medical license and his own career to do so, but she has given it a lot of thought in the months since. Justified or not, she feels she owes him. That indebtedness sits now in her chest, lead-heavy and diamond-hard. She wonders if he was counting on that when he appeared on her doorstep with a bottle of wine.

Bedelia regards the gift bag containing said bottle, still in her hand. She sets it on the kitchen counter, where she will see it later and remember to place it in the wine rack. 

"Thank you for the gift," she tells Hannibal as she turns back towards him. He smiles, inclines his head as a way of saying "You’re welcome". He sips the last of his coffee. Hers is still untouched.

It occurs to her that Hannibal has never once asked _why_ she killed Neal Frank. For which she is grateful, on the one hand, because she has no answer to that question. Still. Isn’t he curious?

That thought is too uncomfortable to entertain for long.

“When would you like to start?” she asks, as if she intended all along to say yes to his proposal.

He gestures, palms up. "Thursday at four? If that still works for you, of course."

He is such a creature of habit, she almost smiles. Instead she nods. "That works. Thursdays at four."

* * *

  
TRANSCRIPT  
Case No.: 10SD0068  
Witness Interview of Dr. Hannibal Lecter  
Interviewer: Det. Evelyn Yow  
Date: Aug 19

[EXCERPT]

EY: A last question, Dr. Lecter. What do you think happened between Neal Frank and Dr. Du Maurier? Any reason he might want to hurt her?

HL: I really can’t offer any insight. I wasn’t there for the attack. As for Neal, I couldn’t guess what he was thinking at the time. And anything I know from having treated him, I can’t discuss.

But more generally—and as a detective, I imagine you’ve witnessed this first-hand—in general, a man who wraps his hands around a woman’s throat and cuts off her flow of air wishes to exercise absolute power over her. Perhaps the only way he knows how. In effect, he is saying, "I am in control now. I decide whether you take another breath. Or not." And that is a very dangerous individual.

EY: Right. Well said, Doctor. I'd like to thank you for your time. 

HL: I’m happy to help.

EY: I think that'll be all. Was this the exit or … ?

HL: I'd ask you to use my patients' exit, if you don't mind?

EY: No problem.

HL: Thank you so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's my first multi-chapter fic! It's the first time (in this fandom) I've ever taken on something so plotty, but the death of Neal Frank as presented on the show has always troubled me. I felt like there had to be more to the story, and this is my way of exploring that. I'd love to know what you thought!
> 
> Huge thanks to those of you who have read and commented! I appreciate it more than I can express. ♥♥♥

**Author's Note:**

> Come and say hello on [tumblr](https://plain-as-pandemonium.tumblr.com/).


End file.
